


The "A" in Pack

by thistledome



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Agender Character, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Out, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 13:10:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistledome/pseuds/thistledome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott’s shirt is so filthy with his own blood that it’s stained rust red all down the front. Stiles is clinging to him like his life depends on it, and one of them, if not both, is shaking hard. Something swoops in Boyd’s gut, even as he watches Scott breathe in Stiles’ scent, nose tucked into the curve between shoulder and throat, at the way Stiles’ heart is beating so wild Boyd can hear it like they’re standing next to one another. Boyd tears his eyes away when Scott pecks the side of Stiles’ neck.</p><p>He didn’t know that was happening. If it’s not new, then they’ve been hiding it pretty well. It’s not any of Boyd’s business, either way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The "A" in Pack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> Written for the TransAceAro V-Day Exchange 2016 for [bdxcubes](http://bdxcubes.tumblr.com), otherwise known as [nezstorm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm) on AO3, who asked for Stiles/Scott/Boyd, hurt/comfort, and a happy ending. And also Valentine's Day.
> 
> This started out as a 5K fic about battling monsters and healing the wounds of pack mates, and then it took on a mind of its own and there was a lot of swoopy feelings and a lot of shouting at my computer screen and a huge rewrite to fix an unresolved Chekhov's gun, and I ended up with nearly 12K of Boyd pining. Happy Valentine's Day, I guess?
> 
> A big, big thank you to [Heather](http://wordsonastick.tumblr.com) for letting me cry at her through the initial writing process, and then the big fat last minute rewrite, and then still checking it over for errors, and to [Nat](http://scruffyacademic.tumblr.com), who picked up on a couple whopping mistakes and set me on the right path. You guys are rad.
> 
> Warnings in the end notes.

This is what they know:

The thing that’s been killing people in the preserve – whatever it is, drawn in by the Nemeton and leaving only sigils drawn out of the victim’s blood and hair and teeth - comes at night, kills when the moon is at its highest, and smells of dust and ozone and death. It took Scott three days ago, because with his alpha healing it can slash out Scott’s throat and do its magic and pull out his teeth and then Scott will heal so the killer can do their ritual over and over without having to leave a body behind.

Isaac thinks it’s a witch. Derek seems determined that it’s another dark druid like Jennifer was, a Darach using blood magic to gain power. Allison’s been looking into a bunch of old Eastern European fairy tales that seem to be leading them nowhere. Deaton has been tight-lipped for far too long, his answers to their questions growing vaguer every time they ask, the shadows under his eyes growing darker. Mostly, Stiles is just a wreck.

Boyd doesn’t interact with Stiles much, sticks to his closest pack mates – Isaac and Erica – and hangs a handful of steps behind Derek, who’s always been happy to shift to make space for Boyd. Stiles is windmilling arms and a smart mouth and a quick head that is always heading straight for the worst outcome like he’s the counterbalance to Scott’s unerring positive determination. Boyd is the muscle, which is fine by him, because it means he can keep his head down and get shit done without being interrupted by the drama that wafts around the heads of some of his pack mates. So they don’t really see a lot of each other. They don’t really talk.

As much as he steers a clear path, though, Boyd can’t help but pay attention to the way Stiles is unravelling. It’s like his stitches are coming loose and instead of tightening them and tying them off, Stiles is sewing straight over with new threads in such a rush that he’s leaving loose ends. He is stubborn and bright and will topple himself over in order to save those around him. Boyd finds that curious.

So he thanks Stiles in earnest when Stiles shows up at his house one night before patrol with a protection charm. Stiles looks haggard with exhaustion and shaking out of his skin from too much Adderall, but he hangs from Boyd’s front porch and produces the bag like it’s nothing. It’s got the McCall pack sign inked on the front in sharpie.

‘I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I figure it’ll cover the basics. Just in case our murderer comes looking for another furry victim.’

‘No point if it has Scott,’ says Boyd, leaning against the front door frame. He watches Stiles’ eyes go tight and knows Stiles has already considered that. The fact that he’s trying to protect the rest of the pack anyway is… it makes Boyd feel a little sick, actually. Because that would mean Boyd’s alpha is dead. But it’s also warm and fuzzy, because Stiles is pack, is Scott’s second, and Boyd looks up to him even if they rarely interact.

‘What’s in it?’ Boyd asks into the tense pause, and Stiles’ shoulders loosen a fraction. He holds his hand out towards Boyd, the leather strap tied around the bag swinging into the air between them. Boyd smells salt, and metal, and sweet and bitter greenery. He hears something metallic click inside when it moves.

‘Herbs, mostly,’ says Stiles. ‘I did some googling – I figured if magic works by belief, like mountain ash, then it wouldn’t matter whether the item itself was magic, so long as the item was tied to belief by lore. Or the internet. So there’s some rosemary in there, an iron shard, amber, black pepper, ash, parsley, salt, and mistletoe, all for protection. I can take the mistletoe out if it’s bothering you, but I figured it shouldn’t be as much of a problem as mountain ash or wolfsbane. I have no idea if it’ll work for certain, anyway, but if you’re going to go patrolling in the preserve you may as well take something with you just in case.’

Boyd feel something sweet swelling in his chest at the affection he’s not used to receiving, but he just nods at Stiles and reaches out to take the offered charm. Stiles hesitates, cheeks tinging pink.

‘Actually, it said I should, uh, put it on you myself.’ 

Boyd pauses, and Stiles glances away, skittish. He smells like embarrassment and, vaguely, arousal, but Stiles always kind of smells like arousal. It makes Boyd feel a little uncomfortable, for reasons he’s not particularly keen on analysing, and so he ducks his head despite his own rising blush and waits for Stiles to jangle forward and hang the charm around his neck.

Stiles is careful and quiet, heart beating loud in Boyd’s ears as he approaches. Boyd stays as still as he possibly can, eyes down around Stiles’ scuffed converses. He holds his breath when Stiles reaches up, uncharacteristically even in his movements, and knots the leather behind Boyd’s neck. His fingers are warm when they brush against the edge of Boyd’s t-shirt collar.

‘Cool,’ says Stiles after a fraction too long, and Boyd barely stops all the air whooshing out of his lungs all at once. When he looks up at Stiles there’s a funny look in his eyes, and Boyd catches the way his glance lingers on the bag sitting against Boyd’s sternum. Boyd pats it down with gentle fingers. The herbs rustle inside.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and their eyes meet and he holds Stiles’ gaze. Stiles seems struck like a deer in headlights for a second, but then he nods, eyes darting away again.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘well, you need to stay safe out there when you go find Scotty.’

And then he scrambles down the front steps of Boyd’s porch and makes a beeline for his jeep. Boyd feels oddly like someone’s punched him in the chest.

 

-

 

The witch coven is mostly young teenagers drawn zombie-like to serve the coven head, a man so old he’s bent over and gnarly, even as power radiates from his form. His coven fight ruthlessly, all compelled to take the pack down however they can. Boyd even recognises some of them – a teenage girl that was in the same year as Alicia, arms skinny and hair a scraggly mess hanging around her shoulders, and a boy that’s thirteen at the most who goes to ROTC. Derek warns the pack to be careful, to try not to hurt these kids too much because they’re all under some kind of spell. It’s a struggle, but they get the kids all rounded up and they put the head witch down in the dirt. Suddenly, like a switch has been flicked, the coven members are blinking as if they’ve just woken up, are staring and stumbling about like they’ve all come out of a trance. It’s going to be a particularly long night.

As he’s directing the last of them towards where all their transport is, Boyd catches sight of Scott and Stiles at the edge of the clearing. Scott’s shirt is so filthy with his own blood that it’s stained rust red all down the front. Stiles is clinging to him like his life depends on it, and one of them, if not both, is shaking hard. Something swoops in Boyd’s gut, even as he watches Scott breathe in Stiles’ scent, nose tucked into the curve between shoulder and throat, at the way Stiles’ heart is beating so wild Boyd can hear it like they’re standing next to one another. Boyd tears his eyes away when Scott pecks the side of Stiles’ neck.

He didn’t know that was happening. If it’s not new, then they’ve been hiding it pretty well. It’s not any of Boyd’s business, either way.

 

-

 

Something like three weeks later Stiles comes around to Boyd’s house when Boyd is doing homework, and he’s never actually _stood_ in Boyd’s house before, but either way Boyd’s grandmother is pissed that he didn’t ask before he came around. Boyd just directs him towards Boyd’s bedroom, and then sits on his unmade bed while Stiles paces back and forth.

‘You’re going to walk a hole into the carpet,’ Boyd says after a minute.

Stiles jerks like he’s been dragged suddenly from a train of thought, and then he turns to Boyd, eyes set with determination. ‘We’re friends now, right?’ He asks.

Stiles had insinuated once before that they were friends, but that’s when they all thought Erica was dead and Boyd was so heartbroken he could barely breathe for the air in his lungs. It doesn’t strike Boyd as odd that Stiles would remember that.

‘We’re pack,’ says Boyd, but when Stiles just frowns he adds, ‘I trust you with my life.’

Stiles slumps with relief. ‘I haven’t told anyone yet,’ he says, and drags his hands through his hair. It keeps getting longer and longer, to the point where he can push most of it behind his ears now. ‘I mean, Scott knows, but Scott’s – there’s no way Scott wouldn’t know. But you guys deserve to know – you’re, I’m, we’re _pack_ , like you said, it’s just I’ve never sort of told anyone.’

Boyd waits, watches the way Stiles is wringing himself out like a wet sponge. He just pours himself out at Boyd’s feet, and Boyd could say something, could think of several things to say, actually, but what Boyd knows more than anything is that if you let someone like Stiles work through their own rambling in their own time, eventually the important bits all fall out. It’s a waiting game. Most people don’t have the patience to wait for Stiles, and so he clams up. But Boyd just sits there, one eyebrow cocked.

Stiles blows out a sigh and scrubs his face with both hands. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I’m gonna say it.’

Boyd raises both eyebrows this time to show he’s listening.

‘I’m agender!’ Blurts Stiles, arms wide like he’s revealing himself. Then his shoulders hike up around his ears.

Boyd has to admit, he didn’t see that coming. For all he has a habit of sitting back and watching his pack, there are some things you just can’t see for looking. Or you can, maybe, but it’s only recently he’s come to analyse anything Stiles does. He’s probably dropped hints all over the place and Boyd’s just taken it as Stiles being, well, Stiles. But that’s cool.

‘Okay,’ Boyd says. ‘What pronouns would you prefer?’

‘I –’ starts Stiles, and then stops dead, mouth hanging open. There’s a long moment where he stays like that, and Boyd thinks about Peter ribbing Stiles about his wide open mouth catching flies. ‘Wait,’ says Stiles, ‘what?’

‘Pronouns,’ repeats Boyd calmly.

‘You mean you don’t need me to explain this to you?’

Given how much research Boyd’s been doing of late regarding the “A” in LGBTQIA, no he really, really doesn’t. But instead he says, ‘No, I get it.’

‘Oh,’ says Stiles, and sits down next to Boyd like a gooey, boneless mess. His heart was going a mile a minute just before but now he seems to have edged away from the dangerous side of panic. He leans his head on Boyd’s shoulder, and Boyd doesn’t know how he feels about that. Uncomfortable, maybe. But also proud? Conflicted.

‘He and him when we’re at school, if that’s okay,’ says Stiles. ‘And around my dad, for the moment. But, um, after I tell the rest of the pack I’d rather if you use they and them.’

Something sits in Boyd’s throat when Stiles says that. It takes him a while, but long after Stiles has gone away to tell Derek and Isaac, Boyd realises it’s because Stiles told him first. And that feels… well. Boyd isn’t really sure. It feels too hopeful, probably, for best friends who kiss one another’s necks. But he’s kind of really okay with hopeful. Hopeful’s sort of new. He likes it.

 

\- 

 

Not everyone takes it so well. The pack are accepting as a whole, if somewhat begrudgingly in some cases, but there are still furtive glances and whispered conversations and a lot of fumbling over what exactly to call Stiles, and generally Stiles appears to walk around with their shoulders around their ears. Boyd starts hanging out with them after school while they do their homework, just in case.

They don’t talk about it.

They just study, and sometimes share notes, and sometimes Stiles drives Boyd to work, and sometimes Stiles messes around with makeup while Boyd teaches himself to finger pick on the ukulele. Stiles can only afford drug store makeup, and they don’t really know how to use it past which ones go where, and so there are a lot of instances where eye jabbing is heavily involved. One afternoon Scott is over too, and he’s pressed all up against Stiles’ side as Stiles puts on mascara, and he snorts a laugh into his hands when Stiles blinks and just smears black _everywhere_ , but then Boyd watches, captured, when Scott rips a makeup wipe out of the packet and dabs away the black marks under Stiles’ eyes.

‘Whoa, dude,’ breathes Scott after a moment, ‘you’re beautiful.’

Stiles blushes so hard they’re practically purple. A second later they’re whipping their head around to look to Boyd, and Boyd finds himself staring. It’s not fair, he thinks vaguely, as he swallows the lump forming in his throat. It’s been hard enough not to just get lost in those eyes, but with Stiles’ eyelashes painted thick and black it’s a little bit painful.

Boyd has realised by now that he’s got himself a little crush. He’s trying to keep himself in check, but it’s hard not to like Stiles now that he’s getting to know them. The things he likes about Stiles are the things that he liked about Erica once upon a time.

‘I don’t know that makeup and I are on speaking terms,’ says Stiles, screwing the mascara wand back into its tube. They put the whole thing down carefully on the kitchen table, and then lean back, hands in their lap. Their hair, which is getting longer still, flops forward into their face.

‘You’re beautiful either way,’ says Scott, with a small smile. Boyd feels like he’s watching someone else’s private conversation for a moment, because Stiles smiles the same small smile back. Before Boyd can look away, though, Stiles takes the makeup wipe from Scott and starts scrubbing in earnest.

‘You think Stiles is beautiful, right Boyd?’ says Scott all of a sudden, and Boyd pauses. Scott doesn’t look like he knows what Boyd’s been thinking for, oh, nearly a month now, but somehow Boyd feels like a deer in headlights. When he doesn’t answer for a beat too long, Scott just raises his eyebrows in question.

‘Yeah,’ Boyd agrees, face flushing. Scott’s face breaks into a beautiful, sunshiny grin, and now Boyd can’t breathe for a bunch of other reasons. He’s so royally fucked.

 

-

 

A rogue alpha comes blundering into McCall pack territory a handful of weeks before school breaks up for Christmas, and between studying and working part time jobs and patrolling the preserve for this alpha that won’t leave them alone, there just isn’t time to breathe easy. The human-types of the pack are effectively put on lockdown, always with a werewolf nearby in case of emergencies. They go everywhere in pairs, and more if they can after dark. Despite all this, they all take turns at getting mauled – Erica first after school, and then Derek walking from the supermarket to his car, Isaac when he wanders too far from the lacrosse field during practice, Boyd behind the ice rink when he’s locking up one night. Scott finds him that night, pulls up in his mother’s beat up car just as the alpha darts around a corner and Boyd is clutching at the aching, bloody stomach wound that feels like it’s splitting him in half.

Boyd vaguely registers the sounds of nearby fighting as Scott’s car idles just feet from where Boyd’s slumped against the ice rink doors. His vision gets kind of swimmy for a moment, and he thinks he loses a couple of seconds that might even be a couple of minutes by the time Scott rushes back to him, battered but whole.

Scott’s skin starts to blacken with veins the instant his hands touch Boyd, but even as his healing powers take the edge off, the jostle of moving makes Boyd scream in pain. He’s been shot before, and by wolfsbane bullets, which fucking sucked. He’s been electrocuted, shot with a bow and arrow, stabbed with werewolf claws. He’s got a really high pain tolerance, all things considered, but getting shoved to his feet isn’t going to stop his whole body from protesting, and loudly. He barely registers the way Scott half walks and half carries him to the car, and dumps him in the back. He’s too busy trying to keep himself from bleeding out to pay attention when the animal clinic comes into view.

After a lot more pain and a lot of swearing and the clinic’s alarm going off for fifteen seconds because Scott’s hands are too slippery to properly type in the alarm code, they get Boyd slumped onto the floor, and then Scott goes to work to stop the bleeding.

‘Come on,’ he grunts at one point, ‘if you can survive Derek then you can survive this.’

Boyd wheezes in response as Scott’s hands on his stomach press down harder.

‘Are you healing?’ he asks after another handful of seconds. Boyd feels light-headed, but he’s also noticed that it’s getting easier to breathe, so there’s that.

‘I think so,’ he replies.

‘Good,’ says Scott, half breathless. ‘Stiles would be so pissed if you died on us.’

It takes time, and probably a dangerously large amount of blood loss, but the gash in his front heals, eventually. Scott holds his stomach together valiantly the entire time, talking to distract Boyd, but maybe also himself, and then goes around afterwards mopping up the pools of blood Boyd’s left behind. Boyd just studies another ruined t-shirt and wonders whether there’d be a way of convincing Lydia to make random bloody shirt tears a viable fashion option.

‘Sorry I was late,’ says Scott, when they’re both a little calmer-headed and sitting side by side against a filing cabinet at the edge of the room. ‘The car wouldn’t start.’

‘It’s okay,’ replies Boyd.

‘No,’ insists Scott, and catches Boyd’s gaze, holds it. ‘I should have been there.’

Boyd feels pinned, like a butterfly in a case, like he couldn’t look away even if he tried. For a fleeting second he thinks it’s Scott’s alpha hold over him, but then Boyd thinks about Scott and the sort of alpha Scott is, and it dawns on him that it’s got nothing to do with being an alpha, or a true alpha, or a werewolf or whatever. It’s just Scott.

‘Thank you,’ whispers Boyd. Scott nods, leans into Boyd to bump their shoulders together.

‘As long as you’re okay,’ insists Scott.

‘I am,’ replies Boyd.

 

-

 

He never sees them kiss.

Boyd realises it on New Year’s Eve, when the pack gathers together at Derek’s house despite Derek’s griping that he’s “not one of those high school drop outs that goes to teenager’s parties and buys them beer because his life peaked at sixteen”. They mostly just talk and eat, and there’s an ongoing game of Mario Kart Racing that they take turns at on Derek’s TV, and Erica and Isaac take turns playing party music for them to dance to. Boyd is invited at one point to serenade Lydia with his ukulele, and his nervous rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” is bombarded by Stiles “Can’t Hold a Note” Stilinski, bursting in like a pterodactyl on the chorus and leaving the room gasping with laughter.

At a quarter past ten Isaac asks Derek who he intends to manhandle into a kiss at midnight, and Derek responds by rolling his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts and then asking if Isaac is offering. Erica takes that opportunity to lean into Boyd, grinning.

‘Wanna kiss at midnight?’ She asks.

They’ve kissed before.

Back when everything started, back when Derek was alpha and went around biting teenagers who didn’t fit in, Erica and Boyd found themselves an odd pairing that seemed to fall somewhere between friendship and romance. Boyd knows now that they’d both been so scared out of their minds that it just made sense, but as soon as they’d gotten out of the alpha pack’s clutches and back to their pack whatever might have been petered out into friendship. Boyd loves Erica, honestly. She’s wickedly funny and hellishly stubborn, and Boyd knows that physically she’s gorgeous. Also she’s a pretty good kisser. But he doesn’t feel the kind of jerk in his gut around her that he gets sometimes when he looks at Scott or Stiles.

He shrugs, and Erica winks roguishly.

Later, somewhere closer to twelve, he sees Stiles and Scott break away from the rests of the group and meander into the kitchenette. There’s no real privacy there – it’s a big open hole where a brick wall should be, and Derek’s never fixed it because Derek thinks he deserves to live in squalor, because he’s an idiot – but it’s shadowed enough that he can only just make out the way Stiles leans in for a hug, the way Scott hugs them back. To his left someone pronounces it ten minutes to midnight, and Boyd wonders, absently, about what Scott and Stiles would look like, lip-locked. They’re not to same sort of couple that, say, Scott was when he was with Allison. They’re not all public googly eyes and blushing all over one another. It’s all glancing touches that just sort of extend. God knows that Scott and Stiles have always been the tactile sort, a slap to the back, a hand on an arm, a hug or a jostle or just leaning against each other, being comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder. If you’re not looking, you may not even notice it, but Boyd is constantly seeing it, no matter what he does.

Stiles bumping against Scott’s side and Scott humming pleasantly, eyes crinkling in Stiles’ direction.

Scott resting his hand in the small of Stiles’ back when they’re directing their way through the traffic of the hall between classes.

Stiles’ fingers lingering on the back of Scott’s neck when they hug.

And now Boyd can’t help himself but think about them kissing. It’s not a sexual thing. In his head it’s just this unhurried brush of mouths, and Scott’s fingers tangled in the collar of Stiles’ shirt, and Stiles’ hands resting on the jut of Scott’s hips. It looks sweet and comfortable and intimate. And sometimes it’s Boyd kissing Stiles, and sometimes it’s Boyd kissing Scott, and sometimes it’s just Scott and Stiles.

The real Scott and Stiles are just hugging in the dark, though, talking quietly amongst themselves, grabbing the plastic champagne flutes and Lydia’s sparkling wine from the fridge. Boyd gets jolted from his daydreaming as they shuffle back into join the party.

‘That better not be alcohol,’ teases Derek from the floor by his sad, solitary blue sofa.

Stiles snorts a laugh and starts handing out glasses.

The pack crams in together around the sofa for the last minutes of the year. The TV is playing a live special on TV that no one’s paying attention to, too busy filling up glasses and chatting over one another. There’s a pile of blankets and cushion they’re spread out over between the sofa and the TV, but even still, it’s a tight fit for such a big group. Boyd ends up wedged between the sofa’s cushy arm and Erica, her arm slung over his shoulder.

‘Pucker up, big boy,’ she jokes as the countdown draws closer.

Over her far shoulder, down near the front edge of the furthest blanket, are Scott and Stiles, pressed together shoulder to knee. When the countdown starts, Boyd sees Stiles’ eyes drop to Scott’s mouth. His insides clench tight, and all the air sucks out of the room.

He doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Stiles looks up and their gazes lock. Stiles goes bright, brilliant pink, right to their ears, and Boyd can feel his own face flush in reply. He doesn’t even want Stiles, not the way Stiles probably wants Scott. Not exactly. But it’s Stiles, pretty and smart and gumby-like, and Scott, who smiles like sunshine and is always sweet and thoughtful and, and –

And it’s midnight suddenly, stunningly, and the pack all cheer and toast their drinks. Allison leans over to kiss Isaac, and Erica plants a loud, smacking, lipsticky kiss on Boyd’s cheek, but it’s mostly just shouting and laughing and the TV playing Skrillex loudly. It’s all heckling and revelry, and Boyd’s heart beating out of his chest when Scott nudges Stiles just a fraction, just a touch, and kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth. Boyd can’t see Scott’s face, can’t see the way he’s likely blushing too, but it’s better than anything he could have pictured in his head, and more than anything he wants it.

 

-

 

‘Hey,’ asks Stiles one afternoon when it’s too cold to play lacrosse and they’re just sitting indoors, watching reruns of Chopped on TV, ‘how did you know about the agender thing?’

‘What do you mean?’ asks Boyd. He’s half asleep, face smashed into the arm of the couch, his socked feet curled up underneath him.

‘How did you know what the word meant,’ clarifies Stiles, and it feels distant, a million miles away, but maybe it’s because it’s so warm inside and all Boyd can smell is Stiles and comfort and calm.

‘I’m ace,’ Boyd replies slowly. ‘They get lumped in together in the acronym.’

‘Huh,’ says Stiles, and then, after a pause, ‘ _oh_.’

Boyd glances up blearily. ‘Oh?’

‘Nothing, dude, don’t worry.’

 

-

 

Not only are Maenads real, but they’re pretty damn hard to beat. They’re tricky, because whenever the pack get close enough they just pull their weird, raver magic and everyone gets lost like they’re off their faces on drugs. Beacon Hills is suddenly riddled with night clubs that keep popping up everywhere. It’s exhausting.

Fortunately, since they’re beasts out of Greek Mythology, it’s more a matter of finding the real information within everything they dredge up. Unfortunately Maeneds are also bad guys in a bunch of fiction, including a whole season of _True Blood_ , so finding the real stuff is proving difficult.

They take the studying in teams. Allison, Lydia and Isaac invade the Argent house to go through the bestiary to see if there’s anything of use that the family have noted over the years. Erica gets shafted with Derek – it’s payback for a dirty move she pulled in training the other week, as she is wont to do – so they end up looking through the Hale’s secret hideaway under the school, and then trawling the school library, since it’s so close. Boyd, after work, is directed to the Stilinski house with Stiles and Scott, who’ve been dealt the heavy blow of finding a needle in the giant haystack otherwise known as the internet.

It’s really, really slow going. There’s a lot of printed pages that Scott and Boyd look over as Stiles keeps pulling up addresses. The night gets later and later, and the three of them make themselves more and more comfortable. Boyd drops off sometime between eleven and midnight, leaning against the end of Stiles’ bed, fingers still clutching a wad of unhelpful Geocities printouts.

He wakes up in the dark hours to the sounds of throaty whining.

The lights in the room are still on, but Stiles is slumped in his desk chair, his computer’s screen dark from disuse as Stiles drools into his t-shirt. He’s sleeping peacefully, mouth wide open, even though he looks like he’s going to wake up with one hell of a crick in his neck. He’s not the one in distress, though.

Boyd shifts about, his tailbone protesting slightly as he twists towards his alpha, curled into a tight ball on top of Stiles’ bed. Scott has fallen asleep on top of the covers, a handful of rogue pages creasing under his body weight. Whatever he’s dreaming about can’t be nice. His heart is beating hard. Even as Boyd climbs onto his knees, Scott beta shifts in his sleep, startles a too-loud yelp.

Stiles wakes with a start, half-falling from their chair. They make a sleepy noise in questioning, but before Boyd can turn around and shush them they're clambering to their feet, long limbed and gazelle-like, and over to Boyd’s side. ‘Shit,’ they whisper, ‘he’s having the nightmare again.’

And that’s concerning. Boyd didn’t know Scott was having nightmares. They all have them occasionally, because the stuff they face is generally considered nightmare inducing, but the specific phrasing of “the nightmare again” suggests that this has been going on for a while. The beta in him wants to do anything it can to protect his alpha, help him sleep dreamless. The friend in him, more so, wants it too.

Stiles makes a move like they're going to climb up, but Scott’s claws are already making light work of Stiles’ poor, unsuspecting bedding. Boyd can just see the gory way this is likely to end. He holds his arm out in warning and meets Stiles’ frown with a warning glance.

‘You’ll get shredded alive if you try to wake him up,’ he says, voice gravelly from sleep.

‘And you won’t?’ snaps Stiles, testing.

‘I’ll heal,’ replies Boyd with a roll of his eyes, and then climbs up behind Scott onto Stiles’ narrow bed.

‘Be careful,’ Stiles warns like it’s second nature, and Boyd would be touched but he’s too busy, distracted by the way he wants to comfort his alpha and make it all better. Scott’s elevated heart rate is rattling around in Boyd’s head, distressing and unsettling and wrong. It makes him want to roll over at his alpha’s feet, to bare his neck if it would just help make things right again. Despite warning Stiles away from claws and teeth and danger he wanders straight into it unthinking, skates his hand over Scott’s shoulder, grips too hard and shakes.

It takes a handful of second to rouse Scott. When he comes too it’s with a strangled, half-human cry that shakes all the way down to Boyd’s very core. Scott goes from flat on his back to sitting straight up instantly, digging his claws into the meat of Boyd’s arms, open, panting mouth full of sharp teeth, eyes wild and red. Boyd feels himself shift automatically, a heady rush that comes over him so strong he barely feels his own skin break under Scott’s grip. His mouth is full of nails. He can see every bristly hair breaking out on Scott’s face. He goes still, prey caught in a predator’s trap.  
He doesn’t know how long he’s stuck like that – it could be seconds or it could be eons. He can hear his own blood rushing hard in his ears, the pounding of his alpha’s heart clear and sharp, and then somewhere behind him, a little further off, a third heartbeat beating even faster, but it’s muddied under the pin of _submitsubmitsubmit_. It takes his alpha’s eyes fading from red back to brown for him to come to his senses even a little.

‘Boyd,’ breathes out Scott, like it’s punched out of him, ‘holy _shit_ , I’m so sorry!’

Boyd blinks the beta shift away, a little woozy. It doesn’t want to stick. He feels his control sliding in and out, and something’s horribly wrong.

‘Holy _god_ ,’ Stiles is muttering in the background. ‘ _Oh my god_ , holy mother of fuck, what the hell!?’

‘I’m so sorry!’ Scott says again, and then goes to take his claws out of Boyd’s arms. It pulls sharply, but nothing happens. Boyd grunts with pain, utterly overwhelmed.

‘Shit,’ says Scott again, and Boyd can only hold onto that, to Scott’s voice, because everything else is getting fuzzy. ‘Okay, okay, don’t move. I’m gonna have to – shit – Stiles? Can you --?’

Boyd is caught, and his head is full of cotton wool, and his heart is skipping painfully because he’s done the wrong thing, he’s fucked this all up, and now his alpha is panicking and Boyd can’t think straight. His control over the shift is wavering, and he feels his teeth in his mouth grow and recede, grow and recede, dragging along his gums and splitting his mouth open over and over again. He thinks his hands might be shaking, but he doesn’t know for sure – and then two clammy hands are gripping his shoulders, long, pale fingers kneading the muscles in his neck. It’s like being doused in cold water, and suddenly he’s in control again. He gasps in blessedly sweet air.

‘I’m okay,’ he croaks out. ‘I don’t know what happened, but I’m okay.’

Scott’s still fixed to him by his claws. ‘Sorry,’ he says a third time, mouth twisting with regret. ‘I have to take them out. It’s going to hurt.’

Boyd thinks about his anchor. He thinks about his pack, his friends, sitting with people at lunch and having them make room for him, listen to him and consider him one of them. He thinks about Scott, not just his alpha but his _friend_ , and Stiles.

‘Do it.’

Stiles still has their hands on Boyd’s shoulders when Scott rips his claws free. He feels safe and sound under Stiles’ grasp, of being pressed in between the two of them, and so even though it hurts – it’s agony when Scott’s claws slide free of the meet of Boyd’s upper arms – Boyd feels their sliding loose as relief. He rolls forward into Scott’s chest with a punched out grunt, bone-weary.

Scott heaves a sigh, his heart beat slowing under Boyd’s ear, and pats a sticky hand against Boyd’s back soothingly.

It takes a long second for Boyd to realise he’s lost Stiles’ touch from before, those long fingers holding him tight, and without thinking he reaches back and digs his hand into Stiles’ t-shirt, drags on it until Stiles drops onto his back and stays there. Stiles chuckles nervously, but Boyd uses that same hand to find Stiles’ arm and grips his wrist tight so he has Scott’s heart beating under his ear and Stiles’ beating against his fingers. He heals like that, the most at ease he’s felt in months.

 

-

 

‘We need to talk about your nightmares,’ he tells Scott after a lacrosse game one night. They’re the only ones left in the locker room, the rest of the team already on their way to celebrating their most recent win.

Scott fiddles with his elbow pads, ripping at the Velcro and then sticking it back down again. He’s sitting at the benches between the rows of lockers, and when he looks up at Boyd he’s got that look on his face that Boyd sees on him almost all the time now, the one that says he wants to protect Boyd, at any cost. It breaks Boyd’s heart a little.

‘Stiles knows about them.’

Boyd hums, nodding, and Scott rids himself of his wretched elbow pads and starts on his shoulders instead.  
He settles on, ‘I’m your pack, Scott,’ and it makes Scott pause. ‘I want you to tell me this stuff. I want to help.’

Scott looks back up at him, and he looks tired, he looks like he’s been having nightmares for years. Boyd hopes it’s not that long. ‘You don’t just have to do things because we’re pack,’ his alpha says.

Boyd shrugs. ‘Then because we’re friends.’

Scott’s eyebrows jump into his hairline, and Boyd finds himself blown away by the awe written all over him. It never fails to amaze him when Scott bleeds love all over the people he cares about, no matter how many times he does it. It makes him feel warm, makes him so pleased.

‘Yeah?’

Boyd nods. ‘Yeah.’

And so Scott tells him. Tells him about what it was like being captured by the coven back in October, how the coven leader had looked frail and ancient but had frightened Scott completely down to his bones. He tells Boyd about the ritual, about what it felt like, about watching his own blood ooze out of him and then feeling himself heal, feel the skin of his throat raw and pink and new. Boyd hasn’t thought for a long time about the horror Scott must have gone through, about what it must have been like to have been used like that, but as Scott talks himself hoarse Boyd realises that Scott’s been dealing with this with only Stiles to guide him through it for almost five months.

Even still, something seems to ease in Scott a little as he talks. It’s as if, Boyd thinks, a weight is coming off his shoulders, little by little, just by talking it all through. Just because Boyd is listening. And so he sits and listens, for the age Scott takes to mull through it all, wading and slow, a couple of times broken, and he nudges his shoulder against Scott when Scott pauses to compose himself, and he hums to acknowledge that he’s still listening when Scott seems to hesitate. When Scott’s done, Boyd hugs him tight, and he knows Scott’s probably not going to be much closer to better than he was before, but one uneasy step forward is always better than one step back.

 

-

 

He makes a habit of wearing his protection charm under his t-shirt. It’s been nearly six months since the afternoon Stiles swung by and gave it to him, and so the herbs inside have dried out from the salt and gotten a little crushed by the amber stone and the iron, but when Boyd picks it up the whole bag pulses with something warm and inviting, something that feels safe. Boyd likes the way it smells, he likes the feel of it sitting against his sternum and radiating magic so close to his heart.

Admittedly he’s probably a little more attached to the person that gave it to him than to the charm itself, but either way. It feels like it’s working.

This mysterious Maenad doesn’t want to quit. They have a feeling it’s one of the substitute teachers at the school, actually, because one time Erica had her for psychology and came to lunch glassy-eyed and randy. She’d spent long minutes rubbing up against Boyd, her hand sliding up his leg, and it had sat heavy and uncomfortable in his gut. They lie low, though, only just making enough trouble to keep Scott’s attention piqued, but not enough for the pack to have to act. It makes Boyd uneasy for a whole bunch of reasons, not necessarily just because there’s a predator lurking in his hometown.

So, yeah. He digs the protection charm out of his bedside table and wears it to school one day, and then just sort of keeps wearing it. When Allison notices it in French class she tells him what a good idea it is, and then all of a sudden the whole pack are scrounging around in bedrooms, going through wardrobes and desk drawers and laundry baskets, and coming to school with their own protection charms, all of them identical little canvas pouches with hastily sketched out targets sharpied on them. When Scott notices, Derek, always the self-sacrificing martyr, hands his over wordlessly and then refuses to take it back because Scott’s their alpha and the alpha comes first.

Boyd notices the look on Stiles’ face, even as they try to cover it up with indifference. They’re touched. Boyd doesn’t often see that look on their face, the little half smile. Not a lot of Stiles’ smiles are as genuine as that, that raw with emotion. It’s a little overwhelming. Boyd thinks he’s maybe in even deeper than he suspected.

They take up the buddy system again, when January starts to stretch into February and things aren’t looking any better. It’s harder for Boyd and Scott, because they’re the only two with part time jobs, but by now Erica’s parents let her lope about the place unwatched so long as she doesn’t leave the city limits, and Allison and Lydia have always had free reign with their time. Plus, with Isaac still under the McCall roof, it’s not like he has too many restrictions on his movements either. They settle in for the long haul, for afternoons cooped together doing homework, and evenings patrolling sections of the preserve, and weekends wandering around the warehouse district in search of underground parties that get a little too festive.

Mostly it’s all dead ends and nothing much.

Boyd’s out with Stiles at the movies the first week of February to see some documentary no one else was interested in, and as they’re wandering across the foyer in the direction of the candy bar something changes minutely, some little shift in tension that Boyd thinks he can only sense because of his supernatural abilities. It’s so indistinct that he doesn’t even react at first; it’s just like someone walking past close enough for him to feel the air moving, not even enough for the hairs rising on the back of his neck in alertness.

At the counter, behind the register, the girl in the old fashioned candy-stripe dress raises a hand slowly to rub at the dip of her throat, and the smile she sends the couple she’s serving is slow and sticky like molasses.

A guy talking to his friend by the open doors of Cinema three makes a sudden broken-off noise as his friend takes a step into his space that’s far too close to be just friendly.

Next to him, Stiles licks their lips, eyes darting in Boyd’s direction.

If there’s one thing Boyd has learned in the time since he was turned, it’s that the gut feeling he gets that screams _danger_ is generally a good feeling to follow. He stops dead in his path, Stiles swaying to a stand-still next to him, and glances around the open foyer, nostrils flaring. He catches the want from the two friends by cinema three as they kiss, slow and burning. Lust is starting to clog up his sense of smell as the people around him buzz and hum with want. He catches the faint hint of old, dark magic like burnt sugar and dust at the edges of the room. He can feel Stiles’ gaze on him, scorching into the side of his neck and jaw as he glances around for the Maenad.

Because of course the Maenad strikes in a public space like this. Fuck.

‘Boyd?’ Says Stiles, fuzzy, and Boyd’s attention snaps towards them, and the way their eyes are dark, pupils blown, skin flushed. Stiles’ fingers skate up Boyd’s arm and all at once Boyd feels like he’s been punched in the stomach because _Stiles is touching him_ but it’s tainted with horror and panic and urgency.

‘Stiles, snap out of it,’ grunts Boyd. ‘I think the Maenad’s here.’

‘Huh?’ Asks Stiles dazedly, and leans in closer, the ghost of their breath passing over Boyd’s throat.

‘The Maenad,’ repeats Boyd, and grabs Stiles’ by their elbow so he can steer them towards the exit. ‘You know, the thing that keeps turning Beacon Hills into an impromptu party?’

‘Hey, party!’ Crows Stiles, grinning blearily, and slides out of Boyd’s grip with a dangerous lurch. ‘I wanna dance, Boyd,’ they say, and then throws their arms up and starts moving to a beat that isn’t there. ‘Come on, big guy! Dance with me!’

The foyer is quickly descending into the kind of chaos that sets Boyd’s teeth on edge. It’s half grinding dance floor, half orgy, all bodies pressing close, stifling hot. Stiles drags Boyd back into it and they get sucked right into the centre of the writhing mass, Boyd following helplessly because he’s terrified to take his eyes off Stiles, to lose them for even a moment.

Shit, shit, _shit_ , they need to get out of here. They need to find the Maenad and they need to –

A body he doesn’t know presses close against Boyd’s back and then there’s a mouth attaching to the back of his neck, sucking hard against his skin. Boyd flinches away, revulsion flaring in him. It takes far too much effort not to just fling an arm out and sideswipe whoever it was that’s still pressing close, to not shake off the teenage girl to his left that’s grinding into Boyd’s hip unknowingly, to the woman from the ticket office who’s licking a stripe up the side of his neck on his other side. He feels sick to his stomach from their touches, sick at the way Stiles’ hands are touching him, are sliding around his waist and dragging him in close, at the way Stiles’ mouth finds Boyd’s, hot and heady as Stiles’ hips roll. Boyd can feel himself getting aroused and even as it happens he feels ill and angry and panicked. He doesn’t want all these people touching him so intimately, he doesn’t want Stiles touching him so intimately, and especially so since Stiles doesn’t have any control over what they’re doing, even though Boyd does.

‘Stiles, _stop_ ,’ Boyd barks, and it comes out as pleading as it does furious. Stiles seems to stutter, like Boyd might actually be getting through, but then they throw their head back and laugh, manic and loud, and even their voice is tinged with that burnt sugar magic that’s getting stronger and stronger. It takes everything Boyd has to grab at Stiles and hold their wrist tight, force his way through the shuddering pack of people and back towards the front entrance. The whole time Stiles is a careless mess, moving endlessly with the heady high of the Maenad’s magic.

‘Where’re we going?’ They ask as Boyd steers them through the front door and out into the parking lot. Outside the cinema doesn’t look any different to usual. There’s people coming and going in the street as if there’s nothing wrong, and while there’s an odd tension that’s bleeding out around the building, an urge that dissipates slow and steady so that people walking past wander closer together and then further apart without noticing, the Maenad’s magic only seems to stretch so far. Still, Stiles seems to be caught up in it all the same, giggling uselessly, handsy at Boyd’s middle. Their fingers scrabble around Boyd’s waist, and Boyd ignores it, steadfastly directing the pair of them to Stiles’ Jeep.

‘Keys,’ Boyd demands as they get closer. Stiles peels themselves from Boyd’s side and then leans back against the side of his car, hips cocked and eyes half-open. They smirk at Boyd and Boyd feels unsettlingly ill again.

‘In my pocket,’ says Stiles. ‘Where’re we going?’ They ask again, and Boyd gets just close enough to pry Roscoe’s keys from Stiles’ jeans pocket before making a beeline for the driver’s side door. His heart beats hard in his throat the whole time and it makes his head hurt, barely able to keep going despite the wrong feeling. He can’t do this. It’s too much, and he doesn’t – he can’t –

‘Scott’s place,’ he chokes in reply, unlocking the car. ‘You’re under the Maenad’s spell and distance isn’t making a difference.’

Stiles hums pleasantly and arches like a cat. ‘I love Scott. I think I love you too. You should come here and touch me.’

‘I don’t want that,’ says Boyd, and then throws the car door open. He climbs through and unlocks the passenger door and then settles himself behind the wheel as Stiles climbs in next to him. Despite Boyd’s words Stiles seems to slide, boneless, and gets a hand on Boyd’s thigh. Boyd is a little rougher than he should be when he pries Stiles’ fingers off.

He can’t control what Stiles does when he’s driving though. And he knows it’s not Stiles’ fault that they’re under the Maenad’s spell and can’t control the way they feel, but it just makes Boyd want to park the jeep on the side of the road and run. He has to focus entirely on driving to ignore where Stiles’ hands fall on him. He doesn’t want to be touched like this, ever. Not even by Stiles. As soon as they pull up to a red light Boyd digs out his phone from his back pocket, hits the speed dial number for Scott and passes it over to Stiles as a distraction. It’s not on speaker phone but it’s turned up loud enough that Boyd can hear it, his werewolf hearing prickling.

‘Hey man,’ answers Scott almost as soon as Stiles has it help up to their ear. ‘What’s up?’

‘Scotty!’ Cheers Stiles. They snake their free hand around Boyd’s neck and lean in close enough to plant a smacking, wet kiss against Boyd’s cheek. ‘Boyd, it’s Scott!’ They exclaim into Boyd’s ear.

‘Put your seatbelt back on,’ Boyd snaps, and then, slightly louder so Scott can hear, ‘Scott, the Maenad was at the movies. It got Stiles.’

‘Are they okay?’ Comes Scott’s concerned reply, tinny through the phone connection. Stiles still has the phone pressed to their ear, but they’re back in their own space again, trying to buckle themselves in. They’re all thumbs.

‘I’m fine!’ They insist. ‘I totally touched Boyd’s dick, Scotty!’

‘Boyd?’ Says Scott, and his concern sounds more urgent now, because there’s no way Stiles didn’t tell him about Boyd.

‘We’re coming to your place,’ he says instead of admitting that he really doesn’t want to be in the same room as Stiles right now, let alone in the same car. He feels like he’s trapped in a tiny metal cage, and Stiles won’t take their hands off him. He’s starting to get panicky again, and there’s another ten minutes before they get to the McCall house.

‘Are you going to be okay?’ Scott asks right before Stiles chimes in with, ‘It’s a party! A sexy party!’

Admittedly, this would be funny if it wasn’t so horrifying. As it is, Boyd has to brace himself and grit his teeth when Stiles leans in towards him again to mouth at the crook of his neck.

‘I don’t like this,’ is all he says. He hears Scott sigh on the other end of the line, but he doesn’t say anything for a little bit. Stiles still has the phone gripped in their hand, but said hand is clutching at Boyd’s stomach, phone call completely forgotten. Their mouth is latched pretty firmly to the underside of Boyd’s jaw, and Boyd can’t really do much about the hickey that’s likely to form there until the bruise heals with his werewolf powers.

‘Hurry,’ Scott says eventually. ‘I’ll call Deaton. Are you going to be okay?’

Boyd honestly can’t answer that question. His stomach is churning.

‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he says.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Scott, and that just makes Boyd feel worse.

‘Not your fault,’ Boyd insists, and then plucks the phone back out of Stiles’ hands and ends the call without properly saying goodbye.

The ten minutes to Scott’s place is an agony of Stiles making bruises on Boyd’s skin with their mouth and then watching them disappear. Boyd is uncomfortably hard in his jeans and his hands are shaking so hard that if it wasn’t for his werewolf senses he’s pretty sure he would’ve driven them off the road several times over. He wants out, and now. So finding Scott waiting out the front of his house is a godsend.

Scott throws the passenger door open as soon as Boyd pulls up, and he looks equal parts angry and panicked and worried. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks Boyd.

‘Get him off me,’ grunts Boyd, hands glued to the steering wheel.

It takes far too long to pry Stiles free of Boyd’s side, but as soon as Scott has them convinced, Stiles shifts their attention to pressing up against Scott instead for a long, slow kiss that Boyd can’t watch for the churning in his gut, and then dashing ahead into the house and throwing on the stereo in the living room. Boyd sits in the driver’s seat and breathes through the disgust shuddering through his system.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Asks Scott after a moment, and Boyd shakes his head.

‘Did he –?’ Asks Scott, horror colouring his voice.

Boyd shakes his head again. ‘He got his hand down my pants but he didn’t do anything.’

Scott breathes a sigh. ‘I’m so sorry,’ He says, and when Boyd glances over Scott looks like he’s torn between reaching out and throwing his arms around Boyd and taking three steps back so Boyd can puke out the open passenger door instead. He definitely considers both options.

‘Why didn’t it affect you?’ Scott asks after a moment.

‘I don’t know,’ replies Boyd honestly. ‘I am wearing the protection charm Stiles made me, though.’

Scott’s hand raises towards his chest, where Boyd knows his own charm is resting beneath his Henley. He nods, considering, and opens his mouth to say something, but through the loud bass coming from the front room there comes the sound of glass breaking, and both of them flinch at the noise.

‘Stiles,’ says Scott. ‘I should –’

‘Yeah,’ agrees Boyd. ‘I’m right behind you.’

He follows Scott inside and they find Stiles dancing around a broken coffee mug, hips shaking hypnotically, eyes shut and mouth open. They look like a siren calling out to Scott and Boyd, but Boyd is at his wit’s end already so he just stands in the doorway, numb all over while Scott clambers forward to get porcelain shards out from under Stiles’ feet.

‘Careful, dude,’ he warns when Stiles dances away from him.

‘Come dance with me!’ Stiles hollers, and then makes a show of stripping themselves of their clothes, piece by piece and throwing them in Scott’s direction, until they’re down to just their jeans, bare chest pale in the afternoon light. They’re not wearing a protection charm.

‘Dude,’ says Scott, dumping the mug shards and Stiles’ shirts on the sofa, ‘where’s your charm?’

Stiles has danced himself back towards the stereo, and cranks the volume up a couple decibels. It makes Boyd wince, and he sees the way Scott’s eyes pull tight as well. Stiles keeps dancing though, arms windmilling. ‘What charm?’ they half shout over the bass drop.

‘For protection,’ says Scott.

‘I don’t have one!’

Boyd and Scott share a glance even as Stiles keeps shouting over the music.

‘The protection charms work on intention!’ they explain, and falls still – or as still as Stiles possibly can. Their hands are still flailing as they explain, waving wildly in front of them. ‘I made them for you guys because I wanted to keep you safe. It doesn’t work if I make one for myself.’

It strikes Boyd all of a sudden – because he hadn’t realised. He just figured, all those months back when Scott was kidnapped and the whole pack was lost without their alpha and on edge. He had a protection charm, and Stiles had made their other pack mates a protection charm each. He didn’t think, didn’t even stop to consider, that Stiles hadn’t made themselves one, hadn’t made any extra effort to keep themselves out of harm’s way. It’s a horrifying realisation, because all this time, when they were fighting the coven, when they were up against the rogue alpha, when the Maenad came to town and started causing trouble, they’ve all been under Stiles’ protection, but Stiles – fragile, human Stiles – has had nothing but sheer determination and a baseball bat to keep them out of trouble.

Boyd is… beyond angry. And he’s devastated. And he’s disgusted in Stiles, and their recklessness, and this whole damn _avoidable_ situation.

Right. That’s it.

Boyd marches forward past Scott and drags Stiles towards him, ignores Stiles’ sneaky hands climbing under his shirt and the way Stiles grinds against him the instant they’re close enough so he can take his charm off and throw it over Stiles’ head and around their neck. It takes a couple seconds, but then Stiles gasps like someone’s thrown cold water over them and stumbles back half a step, hands grasping thin air. Boyd has to fight the urge to throw up again.

‘Oh my god,’ Stiles half-whispers, most of it lost under the music. ‘Boyd.’

‘You’re an idiot,’ growls Boyd.

Stiles’ mouth flaps open and closed for a moment like a fish, eyes wide and watery. Boyd can’t bring himself to care right now.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Stiles murmurs, voice barely even fighting the dance music still blasting through the living room. They reach forward towards Boyd but Boyd can’t stand the thought of Stiles touching him right now, cuts him off sharply with a, ‘ _Don’t_ ,’ that makes Stiles look like they’ve been slapped across the face. Their hands jump back like they’ve been burned. Boyd turns away.

‘I’m going home,’ he tells Scott.

‘Your charm –’ starts Stiles, and Boyd silences them with a sharp look over his shoulder.

‘Are you sure?’ Asks Scott. He looks calm, but Boyd can see the apprehension in his eyes. Part of Boyd wants to hug Scott, to make sure Scott’s okay as much as anything, but Boyd is so deeply hurting right now that the thought of any kind of physical touch smarts.

Boyd nods.

Scott hesitates a moment, but then he nods back. ‘Be careful,’ he offers. ‘See you at school.’

Boyd echoes back the sentiment and then leaves, is already on his phone to Erica for a lift before he’s even out the front door. He’s not thinking about the look in Stiles’ eyes when Stiles had realised what they’d done. He’s not thinking about the initial thrill of excitement he’d felt when Stiles had looked at him right before Boyd had realised the Maenad was behind it. He’s not thinking about Stiles’ hands touching him.

He’s not. He _can’t_. He doesn’t want to.

 

-

 

Isaac and Erica sit with Boyd at lunch and it feels like old times, before the pack was as sprawling and solid as it is now. It doesn’t feel right, though. Boyd spends a lot of time hurting over the way his instincts keep telling him to look towards Scott and Stiles at their usual table, surrounded by their other pack mates. He wants to go back and sit with them and forgive Stiles and all of that, but he’s still fuming with anger.

Stiles’ misery seeps across the crowded cafeteria either way, Scott’s distress just as obvious. Boyd realises that he’s let himself get dragged into the drama, which is something he never wanted. God, he hates it.

 

-

 

‘I need a date for the Valentine’s Day dance,’ says Erica on Thursday. The dance is on Saturday.

Boyd glances up at her from his history homework, and she just looks at him with that look that says she’s not taking no for an answer, no matter what he tries. She’s very good at that look.

‘The whole pack is going,’ says Boyd. ‘You don’t need a date.’

‘You’re not going,’ argues Erica easily, and pushes her hair back over her shoulders. ‘If you’re not there it’s not the whole pack, is it? Therefore: be my date for the Valentine’s Day dance.’

‘I don’t want to,’ says Boyd like a petulant child.

‘And I don’t want you to keep moping like this,’ says Erica waspishly. She pokes her pencil at the air in front of Boyd accusingly, and when Boyd rolls his eyes at her she rolls them right back. ‘I don’t know what Stiles did to you,’ she adds, voice hard, ‘but I don’t want you hurting over him, so –’

‘Them,’ corrects Boyd automatically.

He chokes on the air in his lungs for the beat it takes for Erica to backpedal and correct herself. Now is not the time.

‘Sorry, them. Them. My point still stands though,’ she breezes. She looks a fraction guilty under her perfectly manicured expression – a habit she’s picked up from Lydia, who she’s grown wickedly close to over the past twelve months. They are unstoppable together; gorgeous and smart and slyly funny, and now Erica wanders around with perfect cleavage and perfect eyeliner and a perfect expression to match her new super powers. She rarely falls into these habits in front of Boyd, unless he’s caught her unawares like now. If he looks close enough he can see her getting flustered over her mistake – which she doesn’t have to, Stiles doesn’t get upset at a pronoun slip. But it’s a delicate subject.

‘I will beat them up if I have to. And Scott, alpha or not. But this pack is my family, and I’m not letting my family break up over a lover’s spat.’

Boyd looks up to Erica, and she doesn’t look determined like she did before. She’s starting to look the way she had when they used to talk about running away together, like when they were trapped in the vault and were half certain they weren’t coming out alive. Boyd hates seeing that look on her face more than anything else in the world. It reminds him of arrows in his legs and electric currents under his skin and running until his lungs scream for air. To think that this is making her look like that is – well it’s not good, is the point. And it works, because of course it does.

‘You’re a dirty cheat,’ he tells her, and Erica breaks out into a bright smile.

 

-

 

The thing is, when Boyd thinks about going to the dance all he can think about is the cinema foyer, and all those people dancing to the same music that didn’t exist, and how trapped he felt, caught in that press of bodies swarming against one another. He’s never really liked school dances, because they’re social gatherings for social kids, and he was never one of those. But now there’s a whole other element of panic laced through all of that dislike, which makes him uneasy.

Erica and Lydia are on the dance floor, picking their way through hot lacrosse player after hot lacrosse player as the songs continue. Allison and Isaac are slow dancing their way through the night, no matter how many upbeat songs play. He’s not looked over at them for a while, but Boyd knows for a fact that Stiles is sitting on the bleachers and shooting glances in Boyd’s direction whenever they think they can get away with it. Boyd haunts the dark corners of the school auditorium, watching the dance floor and feeling vaguely nauseated for far too long.

Scott kind of sneaks up on him in the end, which shouldn’t be as surprising as Boyd finds it.

‘You okay?’ He asks, voice low.

Boyd is leaning against the wall, anxiety swirling around his head. He shrugs, and Scott sighs.

‘Do you want to dance?’ Asks Scott, and Boyd shakes his head this time. So Scott leans against the wall next to Boyd, and somehow Boyd feels a fraction more at ease than he was before. It’s the alpha-beta relationship. It’s easy to rely on when he doesn’t know which way to lean. Makes it easier to start talking, too.

‘You get that I’m angry at them,’ Boyd says, ‘right?’

He’s watching the dance floor, not Scott, but he can sense Scott shift a fraction next to him, and then he says, ‘Yeah.’

Boyd nods, chances a glance in Stiles’ direction. They’re staring intently at their own hands instead of out into the room, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to see how miserable they are. Boyd can’t watch them for long until he feels an ache rising in his chest. ‘The Maenard’s not his fault,’ he tells Scott. ‘I don’t blame them for what it made them do. But they can’t just – they can’t put themselves in harm’s way like that.’

Scott scoffs. ‘I know. _They_ know. Trust me, you’re not the only one that’s angry with them about that.’

Oddly enough it makes Boyd smile, and he and Scott share a look full of half smiles and exasperation. This by far isn’t the first time Stiles has fucked up, and Scott is kind of a saint at this point for putting up with them. But Scott’s maybe a little bit, or maybe a lot, in love with Stiles. Boyd thinks he might have been for years. So he understands.

They end up shifting a fraction closer together on the wall, and Scott’s fingers creep towards Boyd, shift over Boyd’s own hand until their fingers are all laced together. Boyd feels his face flush in the low lights and can easily imagine that Scott’s blushing too. The song changes to something slow and sweet, and in any movie this would be the moment where he asks Scott to dance and then they kiss out on the dance floor. He could do that, but instead he screws up his courage and says the thing that’s more important at this point, that he needs Scott to understand. ‘I don’t want anyone to touch me like that,’ he says.

Scott shoots him a glance, eyebrows in his hairline. ‘You don’t want me to hold your hand?’

It startles a laugh out of Boyd. ‘No!’ he chuckles, and tugs at Scott’s hand before Scott can pull away. It drags Scott an inch closer, and then their shoulders are touching. ‘I want to hold your hand, Scott. I meant that I don’t…’ He trails off and looks back to Scott again, and Scott is watching him intently, paying Boyd his full attention. It’s like a blow to the chest, Scott’s gorgeous dark eyes staring right into his soul, and he has to take a second to pull himself together and come out with it properly. ‘I don’t want to have sex with anyone.’

Scott blinks as that sinks in. ‘Oh,’ he says, but it’s not disappointed, it’s just understanding. 

‘And that’s not going to change,’ clarifies Boyd.

There’s a moment where Scott just holds Boyd’s gaze, and it’s that look, that one that keeps Boyd pinned in place, and then Scott nods. ‘Okay,’ he says.

‘Yeah?’ says Boyd, and they’re closer again, so close he could just lean in a fraction more and kiss Scott.

Scott smiles softly, and his eyes light up, and he’s breathtakingly beautiful. ‘Yeah,’ he says, so Boyd does kiss him.

It’s sweet and chaste, unhurried in the dark with their hands clasped between them. When Scott pulls away Boyd can see just enough to catch the wide grin on Scott’s face and he finds himself echoing that grin.

‘You kissed me,’ says Scott, and his other hand traces his bottom lip like he can’t believe it.

‘Don’t be such a sap,’ Boyd teases. Scott swoops back in to press another kiss to Boyd’s mouth, and then another, and then before Boyd knows it someone’s clearing their throat loudly and the pair of them are springing away, red-faced.

It’s Erica, dolled up in her usual red lipstick and tight skirt, a wolfish smirk written all over her face. Boyd would glare at her, whether he meant it or not, except she’s got a dejected looking Stiles by their jacket collar, and Stiles is looking anywhere but at Scott and Boyd.

‘Found this one trying to sneak out of the auditorium without anyone noticing,’ Erica says, lofty as you like, and shoves Stiles forward harmlessly. They go with a stumble and a flailing of arms, and Erica doesn’t even bat an eyelid. Scott takes a half step forward and catches them effortlessly.

‘Erica,’ snaps Stiles, ‘I told you I didn’t want –’

‘You were trying to leave without saying goodbye?’ asks Scott, big brown eyes wide.

Stiles huffs and extracts themselves from their alpha, face flushing. ‘I didn’t think there was any point sticking around. I’ve already done rejection enough to know when I’m not wanted.’

Boyd shoots a glance at Erica, and Erica rolls her eyes right back at him.

‘Who says you’re not wanted?’ asks Scott, and he sounds genuinely baffled. Bless his adorable cotton socks.

Stiles looks up, face twisted, and they open their mouth to say something but then Scott is kissing them, too, and it’s gorgeous and urgent, and Erica is wolf whistling at Boyd’s elbow. Stiles comes up for air looking bewildered and dumbstruck, and they stay looking that way even when they turn towards Boyd.

‘You guys,’ they choke out, ‘I – I mean –’

‘I’m still angry at you,’ says Boyd.

‘I know,’ winces Stiles.

‘And this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.’

‘I know!’

Stiles reaches out with quick hands and catches Boyd’s wrist, and their grip is firm but they looks hesitant. ‘I’m so, _so_ sorry,’ they say. ‘I never wanted to do that to you.’

Boyd nods, the giddy feeling in him mellowing slightly. ‘I know,’ he says.

Stiles smiles, drags Boyd in just a fraction, just enough. ‘I want – can I kiss you?’ They ask, voice cracking. ‘Is that okay with you?’

Boyd feels light-headed. There’s a balloon swelling in his ribcage, and it’s this wonderful right feeling that he can’t believe he’s actually feeling. ‘Yeah,’ he breathes out, and then Stiles is dragging him forwards more, kissing him sweet and gentle and close mouthed. As they’re kissing Scott says something with his voice full of awe, and then just as Stiles is dragging away Scott swoops in, replaces Stiles’ mouth with his own, kisses Boyd more enthusiastically, his tongue meeting Boyd’s and his hands creeping around Boyd’s waist. Somewhere in the background Erica shouts to Lydia that they owe Allison fifteen dollars, and the DJ plays Taylor Swift.

 

-

 

This is what Boyd knows:

Scott flies past Boyd’s place on Valentine’s Day morning running ten minutes late for work, his hair sticking to his face on one side and sticking up straight on the other, and his t-shirt on backwards. He gives Boyd a mix CD full of music Boyd can’t stand, and a crushed, heart-shaped box of chocolates that he definitely bought at a gas station on the way over. 

Stiles is grounded for a month because they were already grounded for two weeks for the protection charm incident and then got caught sneaking out to go to the dance. They send Boyd a text message asking Boyd to be Stiles’ “boydfriend” followed by a winky face and a string of sparkly emoji hearts.

There is still an ancient mythical Grecian running around Beacon Hills that frightens the ever-living shit out of Boyd.

Things are pretty okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
>  **PTSD:** In the opening of the fic, Scott has been captured and is being tortured as part of a magic ritual. After his rescue he experiences violent nightmares which cause him to attack Boyd when Boyd wakes him from one.
> 
>  **Dubious consent** : Stiles is compelled by a Maenad and gets a little handsy with Boyd, who does not consent to the touching. Nothing is explicitly described and the consequences of Stiles' compelling and the actions that were taken during are discussed and mostly resolved by the end of the fic.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://amyinthebelljar.tumblr.com) if you want to hear me talk endlessly about Boyd playing the ukulele some more, though. For serious.


End file.
